approached a niche in the wall. Each one took a pinch of yellow cornmeal
from the painted bowl, and scattered it successively to the north, west,
south, east; then threw a little of it up in the air and to the ground
before him. During this performance their lips moved as if in prayer.
Then they separated, for the spirits had been appealed to, and their
entrance into their home was under the special protection of Those
Above. Shyuote, whose trout had been ruined during the combat with the
girls, threw himself on the roll in the corner, there to mourn over his
defeat. Okoya went out into the court-yard. Both expected an early meal,
for the fire crackled in the dark kitchen, and a clapping of hands gave
evidence that corn-cakes were being moulded to appease their hungry
stomachs.

The court-yard had become very quiet. Even the children had gone to rest
in a shady place, where they slept in a promiscuous heap, a conglomerate
of human bodies, heads, and limbs, intermingled. The form of an old man
rose out of a hatchway in the ground-floor, and a tall figure, slightly
stooping, clad in a garment, and with a head of iron gray hair, stood on
the flat roof. He walked toward a beam leading down into the court,
seized its upper end and descended with his face toward the wall, but
without faltering. A few steps along the house brought him in front of
Okoya, who had squatted near the doorway of his mother's dwelling. The
youth was so absorbed in gloomy thoughts that the man's appearance was
unexpected. Starting in surprise and hastily rising, Okoya called into
the house,--

"Yaya, sa umo,--'Mother, my grandfather!'"

The old man gave a friendly nod to his grandchild, and crossed the
threshold, stooping low. Still lower the tall form had to bend while
entering the kitchen door. He announced his coming to the inmate in a
husky voice and the common formula,--

"Guatzena!"

"Raua,--'good,'" the woman replied.

Her father squatted close to the fire and fixed his gaze on his
daughter. She knelt on the floor busy spreading dough or thick batter on
a heated slab over the fire. She was baking corn-cakes,--the well-known
_tortillas_ as they are called to-day.

After a short pause the old man quietly inquired,--

"My child, where is your husband?"

"Zashue Tihua," the woman answered, without looking up or interrupting
her work, "is in the fields."

"When will he come?"

The woman raised her right hand, and pointed to the hole